


Hot Tal Shiar Nights

by MishiTheP12



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, Romance, Romulan, Romulans, Tal Shiar, mature romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishiTheP12/pseuds/MishiTheP12
Summary: This is exactly what you think it is.You wake up to find yourself in a Tal Shiar cell after a night at Quark's. You find yourself attracted to your Romulan captor. He has not harmed you. In fact, the entire ordeal was so painless and efficient, that you had no idea! ...And they say Vulcans are efficient.He makes an offer that you don't want to refuse; in fact, you want it just as badly as he.





	Hot Tal Shiar Nights

You sit up and rub your head. A tingling sensation races across your mind, and it hurts.

Like hell.

You didn’t think you drank that much at Quark’s, you tell yourself. You begin blinking the sleep out of your eye as you roll to your side. You were always careful about that sort of thing, switching to synthale the second you felt yourself getting tipsy. One couldn’t be too careful with the likes of Quark and his greed.

You yawn and move your hand. It meets a hard cold surface. You sit up. Cardassian beds sucked, but they weren’t made of stone. Gasping, you sit up. Gray walls surround you like some sort of crappy holosuite program gone mad.

“Well, well, well,” a voice purrs in the dim light. You flinch and turn. You hadn’t sensed another presence. But there he is, sitting in the shadows with his legs crossed. He taps a device against his knee, and the catlike movement reminds you of Garak.

You cringe.

“What do you want, _Tailor?”_   You hiss. You won’t give him an inch. You’ve watched Dukat spar words with him many times, so you knew how to get under his skin. Garak laughs, a soft sound. He rises to his feet and steps into the light. You freeze.

Standing before you is not the familiar, snarky face that snips snarky remarks about your fashion every morning. No. In fact, you would rather be in one of Garak’s alleged interrogation chambers, that is of course, if he really was from the Obsidian Order... 

“I’m afraid the tailor isn’t here.”

You back away from him, a mixture of fear and something strange takes hold of you, pinning you against the far wall. You wish you could just sink into it, for coming towards you is a tall Romulan in a sleek Tal Shiar uniform in all its terrifying glory, the strap around his shoulder, the belt, the black leather gloves—your eyes follow his sleeve until they fall upon the creases his hardened muscles make in his gray tunic.

The Romulan smirks and twirls the thing in his hand. You are not sure what it is. He lifts his hands and lets it slip through his fingers. It clatters to the ground, and you watch it land.

“The results from our mind probes, my dear,” he says. “But you have bigger problems.” You swallow. Of course you have bigger problems! You were whisked away in the night by the Tal Shiar!

He nears you and runs a finger along your jawline. Instead of recoiling, you find yourself leaning into the touch, craving it like a lost dream. He slides his index finger over your lips. Heat rushes through your body as you gaze up at his powerful eyes; like daggers they pierce into the depths of your very being.

_He knows everything there is to know about me._

“I face a dilemma,” he whispers, leaning close. His lips touch your ear, and his hot breath feels like a whirlwind against your neck. “You are not the undercover Starfleet agent our intelligence was led to believe. You are just a Vulcan woman with long hair who spends her time painting and begrudgingly letting that tailor hang them in his shop and sell them for a fee.”

You close your eyes when he pauses. The Romulan wraps his fingers around your neck—lightly. You find yourself pressing into it. He laughs.

“Do we let an innocent woman go and admit our failure, risking our reputation in the process, or do we keep you here forever?”

He slides his lips over your cheek. A tingling sensation weakens your legs, and your heart thrashes like an enraged Klingon.

“My superior wants me to _end_  you by handing you over to him. We’ve already made your death look like an accident.” His body is suddenly against yours. You can feel the warmth of his chest as your breasts brush against his uniform. Your clothes feel heavy, and you—

He cups your chin.

“I’ve convinced him to consider other options, that is, if you make the right decision.” He releases your chin and moves his lips over your throat, giving it a sensational kiss. You gasp and clutch his chest as though he had just entered you. The kiss ripples down your spine like wildfire.

“Whether you follow the ways of Surak or not, my dear,” he says, bringing his lips to your ear again. “You’re still a Vulcan, and every seven years…” his tone takes a playful turn, and he nibbles the tip of your ear. “I have no wife, no children; thus I am in dire need of,” he slides his hands around your waist and squeezes your buttocks.

You moan.

Logic tells you that you should fight, but the fire burning through your blood demands to be smoldered into embers, to be smothered, touched, and quenched all at once.

“Here’s the deal,” he purrs. “You become my consort, live in luxury and peace, or I hand you over to Chairman Koval.” He slides his index finger beneath your chin, his handsome face bearing down on you. “Koval has a special hatred for Vulcans, a festering, insatiable loathing. He’ll not only relieve you of this burden you bear, but he’ll do worse things to you than that ‘tailor’ Garak could possibly dream of.” He lowers his hand and steps back, forcing you to let go of his uniform.

“And then he’ll kill you.”

Your breath comes in quick gasps, your chest heaves. Every rational part of you is screaming to take a stand, but some other part of you, the part other Vulcans turn their nose at, wants nothing more than to have its way with this Romulan and be his consort.

“I don’t even know your name,” you rasp.

“Colonel Rekal,” he says.

“You could have any Romulan woman in the galaxy,” you shudder. “I am a Vulcan, and an outcast at that. Why me?” Rekal smirks and spreads his hands out.

“I like what I saw in the probes,” he replies. “Now then, my generous offer isn’t going to last. I’ll give you ten Earth minutes to consider it.”  He picks up the device and heads for the door. “But if I were you, I’d take it. There’s a reason Koval is the head of my organization.”

You grab the front of your tunic and rip it in half, letting the fabric slide from your body. Rekal flings the device against the wall and charges you. He forces a rough kiss on your lips. You throw your arms around his masculine shoulders. The hardness of his member hits your thigh, and you want nothing more than to ride it through the wormhole.

Rekal lifts you in his arms and pins you to the stone bed.

“Not so fast,” he purrs. You feel elation at the the sheer strength pulsating through his hands as they hold your wrists against the cold stone. He kisses you again.

Again.

And again.

In places you never knew could bring such pleasure.

He takes you through the celestial temple that is your Pon Farr, and your cell echoes with cries of ecstasy on this hot Tal Shiar night of fate.

_Fin_


End file.
